


After the Wells

by elstaplador



Category: Sadler's Wells - Lorna Hill
Genre: Ballet, Bonfire Night, Christmas, F/M, Fireworks, Honeymoon, Missing Scenes, Music, Northumberland, Pregnancy, Rome - Freeform, Wedding, brief appearances by other canon characters, epistolatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/elstaplador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marriage is an exercise in compromises. But this is Veronica and Sebastian we're talking about... Scenes from the first year of the Scott-Weston marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Wells

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Garonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/gifts).



> Thanks to Makioka for beta!

_September_

It is said that a bride never remembers much of her wedding day, that it is only the fleeting moments of exquisite joy or (conversely) the precise instants of utter disaster that remain in the memory. So it was for Veronica. It passed in a whirl of ivory tulle and red roses, of soaring high notes (and, later, unholy shrieks) from the choirboys (drilled by Sebastian to a state of astonishing competence) and congratulatory exclamations from friends and acquaintances. They moved as if in a dream from the little church to the grounds of Bracken House, and then on to the church hall.

The night was warm, the guests were effusive, and Veronica was not as completely recovered from her bout of influenza as she had hoped to be. It was with relief that she at last heard Caroline say, 'It's eight o'clock, Veronica. You ought to change now, if you're to get the sleeper in good time. I believe that Guy's gone to bring the car round.'

Guy Charlton made the perfect chauffeur: discreet, silent yet sympathetic, and convincingly oblivious to the newly-wed kissing going on in the back seat of his capacious car. Only when Veronica laid her head on Sebastian's shoulder and closed her eyes did Guy wink at Sebastian by way of the rear view mirror. Sebastian gently removed Veronica's little hat and laid it on the seat beside him.

'Is it permitted to know where you two are off to?' Guy asked.

'Oh, you might as well know,' Sebastian said softly. 'Paris first, then Milan, and finally Rome. We're chasing the world's great art, and the sun.'

'It sounds wonderful.'

'It will be.' Sebastian dropped a kiss on Veronica's forehead.

  
_October_

And there was plenty of sun left in Rome. They walked long boulevards lined with orange trees, between newspaper stands and marble columns, wandering through the city around which the entire world had once revolved.

‘I like the Pantheon best,’ Veronica said. ‘It was a clever man who built it, to see that no ceiling could be as beautiful as the sky.’  

‘Um! Not so beautiful in the rain, though.’

'Oh, no! Still beautiful; just more difficult to look at!'

'There speaks a child who was born in a pea-soup fog,' Sebastian whispered in a loud aside to nobody in particular. Veronica laughed and swiped at him with her guidebook.

They explored the marble ruins of the Eternal City, shoulder to shoulder with ghosts of centurions, popes and artists. Stirred by the spirit of the place, when they came to the Colosseum, Veronica could not resist turning a _pirouette_ in the middle of the arena.

'Far less barbaric than its original use,' Sebastian laughed. 'It's about time someone revived _Le Sacre du Printemps_ ; you could do something very interesting with that here.' 

They ate ice creams flavoured with exotic things – violet, pistachio, zabaglione. They drank strong black coffee at pavement cafés. They marvelled at the devout who climbed, on their knees, the Santa Scala, the staircase said to have been removed from Pilate's palace and brought to Rome by Saint Helena. At the bottom of the Spanish Steps they saw the little room where John Keats died.

'No stamina,' Sebastian said, with marked disapproval. 'If you or I were feeble enough to keel over and die at the sight of a bad review, we'd never have got anywhere. And if old Keats had made it past the age of twenty he could have written something decent, as well as all those adolescent maunderings.'

They trod the marble chequerboard floors of baroque churches, and found Veronica's name saint in every iteration of the Stations of the Cross.

‘She wiped Christ’s face, an image of which appeared miraculously on the cloth. Saint Veronica!’ Sebastian mused. ‘Was your father so very High, as to name you after a saint? But it fits you: very icon, the true picture. You were well named: you become the picture of any role you take on. You’re the artist and the canvas all in one.’

Veronica blushed. 'Why the flattery?'

'Oh, my dear, it's not flattery; it's all perfectly true. I love the dancer, you know, as well as the woman.'

‘Sebastian Scott, surprised in a rare serious moment!’

‘Don’t you believe it. I cribbed the lot from a review by Oscar Deveraux. Apart from the part where I adore you beyond measure, of course – that was unadulterated Sebastian Scott.'

Both of them threw coins into the Trevi fountain, for neither wanted to risk never returning.

  
_November_

'Sebastian, I'm most awfully worried.'

He looked up from the manuscript. 'Why, my queen?'

'I was sick just now.'

'You were almost sick when first we met. You needn't be afraid you'll alarm me; I'm quite used to it.'

'Oh, darling, don't tease! I think it means I'm going to have a baby.'

'Not imminently, I hope; I want to finish this movement before we go back to Bracken.'

'No, of course not!'

'In which case I'm delighted.'

'But my dancing...!'

Before Veronica was able to protest further, Sebastian's expression changed. He leapt to his feet. 'Excuse me a moment...'

  
Sebastian reappeared some minutes later, looking distinctly green. 'I do believe you're off the hook, my dear. In fact, I'd be inclined to blame those shrimps we had for lunch. “Nothing of him that doth change, but doth suffer a sea-change,” you know, as the poet says.'

Veronica laughed, shakily. 'Oh, I'm so glad! Not glad that you're ill, of course, but I was so terribly worried!'

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. 'I thought women, well, had other means of knowing these things.'

'Oh, not always, particularly when one's a dancer. It goes along with being slim, you see... It didn't even occur to me until I was sick just now.'

'My dear girl, didn't you know where babies come from?'

‘Well, of course I know. Sara explained it all to me years ago.'

‘Ah, yes, those BBC types… Not that it makes much difference, of course – sooner or later it will be 'for real', as they say.’

'But I can't dance with a baby!' Veronica looked horrified.

'My poor child, didn't you think of that before? No, you needn't tell me. You were too busy being Odette, or something equally impractical.'

'But surely there are ways to – well, not have a baby!'

'The only one,' Sebastian said, 'that is completely reliable, is one that I am not inclined to indulge in for any length of time.'

'No, of course not...' Veronica fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. 'But there must be other ways...'

'What would your father have said? The parson? Or was he too unworldly to think of such a sordid detail?'

'I don't know,' Veronica flashed – 'but I can tell you that he understood about my dancing, and how important it was that I do it even though some people didn't think it quite nice. Oh, I wish we could be the other way about! Nobody could tell from listening to a symphony whether the composer was about to have a baby!'

Much to Veronica's fury, Sebastian burst out laughing. 'I do apologise, dear lady,' he gasped when he was able, 'it was just such a ridiculous picture.'

'Well, I'm serious,' she shouted, angrier than ever. 'Can you see yourself with a baby? And if you can't see yourself with one, how can you see me with one?'

'Perhaps we shouldn't have got married, in that case,' Sebastian said, icily.

'It's a bit late now!' Half in tears, Veronica rushed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  
Some time later, Sebastian said, ‘As a matter of fact, there is a solution, of sorts. It’s not very dignified, and not something one likes to mention to one’s wife, but…’

‘Oh, you mean it’s something Aunt June would disapprove of?’

‘I don’t propose to mention it to that lady. She would faint dead away at the very thought – though she and Uncle John did stop after Caroline, of course. Perhaps she’d just grown weary of thinking of England. In any case – what a grisly prospect.’

Veronica laughed. 'I'd rather not think about it. And I don't care what Aunt June would think – about us, I mean. She needn't know. I don't care much about my dignity, either.'

'In which case I'll look into it,' Sebastian said. He took his wife's hand and kissed it very deliberately. 'What on earth did dancers used to do?'

'Pray, I suppose. And if the worst came to the worst, take a few months off, and claim _un mal au genou_.'

Sebastian threw himself to the floor in mock agitation. 'Illness of the knee! My darling Veronica, you have been gravely misinformed! Offspring don't spring forth from the knee!' He peered at hers with a scrutiny that might almost have been serious.

'Do get up, you idiot! It's a euphemism inherited from Marie Taglioni, along with dancing _en pointe_.'

'Is it, by Jove! In which case, I'll say, _honi soit qui mal au genou_ , and you shall dance another day.'

  
Having made peace, they went up to Hampstead Heath together to watch the fireworks.

'Doesn't the bonfire smell glorious? _Remember, remember, the fifth of November_ ,' Veronica chanted gleefully, ' _gunpowder, treason and plot_.'

A rocket screamed into the sky and burst in a weeping shower of red stars.

' _I know no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot_ ,' Sebastian agreed gravely. His gloved hand found hers, and he laughed suddenly.

'What?'

'I was remembering something I said to Caroline once – or that Caroline said to me – or that we both said to each other -'

'What was it?'

'Something about dancers being like shooting stars – how more often than not they go down rather than up. Well, you don't, my darling. You go higher and higher and get better and better.'

Veronica nodded in graceful acknowledgement. 'Even the greatest stars burn up eventually, you know,' she said.

'Ah! but not for thousands of years! Burn as long as you like, my love. I shall continue to revolve around you in amorous and adoring orbit.'

  
_December_

It was a damp, misty, night; not a proper pea-souper as had been common a few years ago, but hazy enough to blot out the sky. Water hung in the air, not quite brave enough to become drizzle, and the light of the street lamps reflected off it, making murky glowing domes every fifty yards.

Veronica sighed. 'Oh, it would be lovely to be in Bracken tonight. Imagine it: a crisp frost, or a little snow on the ground, perhaps, and the stars thronging the heavens for Christmas night!'

'Don't you believe it,' Sebastian said. 'I've no doubt they're having to dig the cars out of six feet of snow just to get to midnight mass, and they can't see two inches in front of their faces.'

'They could take a sleigh, like Caroline said you did that year – well, that year I went back to London. Wherever did you find it?'

'That? Oh, I borrowed it from Bill Drummond of Ditchfield. I've a good mind to buy it from him, as a matter of fact. It strikes me it could be very useful in future years. I completely agree with you, as it happens. I'd much rather spend our first married Christmas in our own married home. Still, one must be practical, and at least we haven't to listen to that old foghorn of a schoolmaster bellowing all the way through _Hark the Herald_.'

'No,' Veronica laughed, 'the choir of St Martin-in-the-Fields is considerably more sophisticated – though you can't blame the poor old man for being enthusiastic.'

'He's not so old as to not make it worth his while improving,' Sebastian said darkly.

  
Almost exactly a week later, twenty-five minutes after midnight on New Year's Day, the weather was equally dull, but London seemed to have woken from its week's stupor (for the days between Christmas and the 31st always feel rather flat) and the streets were full of bustling merrymakers. Piccadilly was still thronged with revellers from every nation on earth, and Veronica and Sebastian moved through them at a leisurely pace. Having sung _Auld Lang Syne_ (clasping crossed hands in the last verse, of course), drunk a glass of champagne apiece, and left the party at what would have been a tediously respectable hour by the standards of anyone who wasn't a dancer, they were on the way home.

'Ought we have taken a cab?' Veronica yawned. 'We both have rehearsals tomorrow morning...'

'A cab? Pah! Cabs are for the herds of the mediocre. Nothing but the chariot of Apollo for you!'

'Since it doesn't appear to be available at night, it rather looks as if it'll be nothing, then!'

'I could carry you,' Sebastian suggested.

Veronica regarded him with deep suspicion. 'I have no doubt you could – and would! I'll walk, thank you.'

'Very well – oh, I've just had a terrible thought!'

'What?'

'How are we to manage the first footing, with neither of us in the flat yet?'

'The what?'

'Oh, I've explained it a hundred times! The first man to cross your threshold on New Year's Day should be tall, dark and handsome, or else it's terribly bad luck.'

'You needn't fish,' Veronica observed. 'Why does he have to be dark?'

'Round our part of the world, back in the year three hundred or so, it was rather bad news if a blond chap showed up at your humble abode – because the chances are he was wielding a large axe and had set out to pillage. A dark man would either be a native, such as yourself, or a reasonably harmless Roman.'

'I see. Does it have to be a man?'

'It's traditional, but I don't believe it's compulsory.'

'In which case, we'll cross the threshold at the very same moment, do it together, and first-foot for each other. I'll be good luck for you, and you'll be good luck for me. I'm not very tall, of course, but I expect the Ancient Britons weren't giants, either. I'd much rather a short Viking turned up than a tall one.'

'My darling wife, you are a genius!'

Veronica yawned again. 'And then I shall race you to bed.'

  
_January_

_Leaving aside the Royal Gala Performance of “Swan Lake”, the ballet world is perhaps most eagerly anticipating the première of “The Emperor's Nightingale”, a new ballet starring Veronica Weston in the title role. Felix Mendelssohn's beautiful music has been most ably arranged by Sebastian Scott, and Toni Rossini's choreography does it more than justice. “The Emperor's Nightingale” features the choreographer himself as the Emperor, Belinda Beaucaire in the role of the Mechanical Bird, and Vivien Chator as the Kitchen Maid. The first performance opens the season on 7th January._

  


'It's remarkable,' Delia McFarlane remarked to Sadie McPherson as they stood in the wings at the final dress rehearsal, watching the _pas de deux_ between the Nightingale and the Mechanical Bird. 'Toni's choreography is marvellous – of course one _knows_ that he has set the steps in stone, but one can't help but imagine that Veronica is making it all up as she goes along.'

'They work together very well, Veronica and Belinda,' her friend agreed, 'considering everyone knows they don't really like each other.'

'Well...' Delia hesitated.

'You're far too sweet-natured, Delia! Of course Veronica disapproves of Belinda because she isn't sufficiently dedicated to the Art – by Veronica's high standards – and Belinda is wildly jealous of Veronica because she's one of the greats – Veronica, I mean – and Belinda knows that _she_ , Belinda, isn't.'

'She's very good in this,' Delia protested. 'It can't be easy, acting exactly like a piece of clockwork. And it does _almost_ make me cry when she falls down and breaks at the end of Act II.'

'Hmph. I think that's mostly Toni's work, but I will respect your opinion. At any rate, Veronica is heartbreaking.'

'Isn't she? And she'll do it better still, you know. Veronica is a true artist: she is always better in the performance than she is in any rehearsal. She rises to the occasion. And the music is so lovely.'

'Indeed. Mendelssohn, isn't it?'

'Yes, Mendelssohn, arranged Scott,' Delia laughed. 'Most of it is from various operatic or choral works, but Sebastian's made such a beautiful job of it that you'd never think there was something missing. All Veronica's solos are set to pieces that Mendelssohn originally set for Jenny Lind, you know – she was Andersen's original Nightingale.'

'It makes sense,' Sadie said dryly. 'Only in classical ballet would one find a nightingale who doesn't sing a note!'

  
_February_

A semblance of order had been restored to the theatre. Taddeo, Sebastian's deputy, had picked up the baton - quite literally! - and had persuaded the over-excited orchestra to turn its attention back to Tchaikovsky's score, so that the Dance of the Little Swans could be rehearsed.

Meanwhile Sebastian and Veronica sat in the stalls and conversed in furious whispers.

'… But my darling, of course, I'm delighted, but I am a little surprised – and anyway, are you sure?'

'Reasonably,' Veronica said, in the voice that Jane Foster had called 'dreamy'. 'I suppose I ought to go to the doctor and make quite certain.'

'At once!' Sebastian declared. 'Or at least, tomorrow. I shall take you myself.'

The extent of Veronica's disorientation might have been perceived from the fact that she did not immediately protest that she had lived in London far longer than Sebastian, and that she could look after herself perfectly well, but merely smiled.

'Anyway,' Sebastian added, 'I'm sure there's nothing worry about, but you _have_ been ill...'

'Almost a year ago,' Veronica murmured.

'… and, as I say, I'm surprised – after everything we talked about last year.'

'New Year's Eve,' Veronica said. 'Well, I suppose it was New Year's Day, if you think about it.'

'Ah. Yes. I remember. Well, that disposes of most of the awkward questions. “I have six honest serving men; they taught me all I knew. Their names are What and Why and When, and Where and How and Who.” Except the most awkward question of them all: are you happy?'

Veronica thought about it. 'I don't know,' she said at last. 'At the moment I feel a little shell-shocked. I'm half-hoping I've made a mistake again, like those shrimps last year. But I think I am. Or I will be.'

Sebastian, faced for once with a situation to which he was unequal, merely nodded. 'Good.'

'I'd better talk to the Director, of course,' Veronica said, suddenly practical. 'I'll finish the run of _Nightingale_ , but I don't want to get any further into _Lac_.'

'The Gala Performance?'

'Jane can do it. I may be perfectly well, of course, but I may not, and I'd rather not let the Company down – I mean, if there's a risk of my letting them down, I'd rather do it now, so they have a chance to make arrangements.'

Sebastian laughed. 'Not just temperament, then. Tact and consideration, too. Forgive me for my over-hasty conclusion.'

It was evident from Veronica's affectionate glare that, vague demeanour aside, she was fully cognisant of her situation, and more or less at peace with it.

  
_March_

Spring was coming to the North. Early warmth was creeping up there, awakening the daffodils and primroses. The air was still crisp, but there was a freshness to it, too, that spoke of life and birth and glories to come. A hopeful cormorant perched, shoulders hunched, on a stone in the River Wear, waiting for an unwary fish to come his way.

High above the silver loop of the river, a little group of four crossed the square of grass in front of Durham cathedral. They made an attractive group: the grace of the two women (one dark, one fair) was set off to perfection by the distinctive looks of the two men (one lively and mercurial, the other a gentle giant). Still, there was little to tell the onlooker that the tall man was the famous artist Jonathan Rosenbaum (or, if one were to be snobbish about it, Baron Craymore), that his lovely wife had once danced at the Royal Opera House, that the other woman was the great ballerina Veronica Weston, and that the man who took her arm was the noted pianist-composer Sebastian Scott.

'How could I have never got out at Durham before?' Veronica wondered. 'Every time I ever came back to the North I thought how magnificent the cathedral and the castle look, out on this high ground together, but I never stopped.'

'Well, we can explore it,' Sebastian said. 'As a matter of fact, I'd rather like to have a wander around and get a feel for the place before meeting the Dean and the Organist and all those churchy types. I really don't know what I'm to write for them! We must go and visit St Cuthbert, of course. Do you know, he walked all the way here, dragging his tomb behind him?'

'I'm sure that's not right,' Stella murmured, smiling.

'Oh, but it is! I saw him myself, I assure you! He hung onto the door knocker like any common criminal.'

Veronica laughed. 'Ignore him, Stella. He thinks it amusing to spout arrant nonsense.'

Inside, they stood awed by the massive beauty of the cathedral, the bold zigzag tracings on the columns, the brutal heft of the walls.

'It'll be rather far removed from my usual style, I can see,' Sebastian murmured, so quiet that only his wife heard him. 'It will be very good for me.'

'After all,' Veronica agreed, 'things do not have to be pretty to be beautiful, nor do they have to be delicate to be perfect.'

'Why, I've been saying that for years!' Jonathan laughed.

'Well I remember it!' Veronica retorted. 'How I confused poor Miss Lishman, my art teacher in Newcastle, when I couldn’t manage to fit a whole picture on her tiny square of cartridge paper!'  

'None of your teachers had any imagination,' Sebastian said.

'You never met any of them, to the best of my recollection. And if you say that you didn't need to, you simply had to observe the fruits of their labours, I shall be mortally offended.'

'Nothing was further from my mind, believe me, dear lady! Were you to ask me about dear Fiona's teachers, however, I might plead guilty.'

'Why bring Fiona into it?' Veronica tucked her hand under Sebastian's elbow and led him into the Galilee chapel. 'I'm told the Venomous Bead is buried here – come and let's see if we can't find him.'

  
_April_

Before rounding the last bend of the drive, Mariella stopped to dislodge a pebble from her shoe. She was able to distinguish two separate strains of music emanating from different parts of Bracken Hall. Chopin, she thought, coming from the music room, where Sebastian was evidently practising, while Veronica seemed to have _Coppélia_ on the record player in the hall.

The door was unlocked. Mariella slipped inside and stood watching Veronica. 'How graceful she is!' Mariella thought, watching her whirl around the parquet floor – graceful despite everything.

The record reached its end, and continued to revolve on the turntable, making a muffled _tock_ noise every second or so, until Veronica crossed the floor to reach it. She looked up and saw her guest.

'Hullo, Mariella! Shan't be a minute!' Veronica lifted the arm of the radiogram, and turned the record over.

She said, 'I don't want to hold you up – I'll go and see if I can't beg a cup of tea from Trixie.'

'Very well,' Veronica laughed. 'Ask her to make one for me, too - I shall be down shortly. You may even find the lord and master hanging around!'  

Trixie was not to be found, and nor was Sebastian (indeed, the piano still sounded from somewhere on the other side of the house), but Mariella discovered the teapot in the kitchen, and put the kettle on. Veronica joined her just as it was boiling.

'There!' she said. 'I must only have a small cup, though; it doesn't do to be overstimulated.'

'How do you find it?' Mariella asked curiously. 'With the baby and everything, I mean?'

'It's not as strange as one might imagine,' Veronica said. 'One's centre of gravity is rather lower, of course, but it happens so gradually that one gets used to it. I daren't think what I must look like, though. One doesn't think of a classical ballerina being pregnant!'

'Are you going to keep dancing, afterwards?'

'Of course – that is, if I possibly can.' A shadow passed over Veronica's face. 'One hears the most appalling stories, because of course a dancer has to be so particularly careful about her body, and one can't be sure that it will ever go back to the way it was before. I suppose I oughtn't be talking about it to an unmarried girl like you, but I'm sure you've come across worse in the course of your veterinary training!'

'I certainly have!' Mariella laughed. 'I'm not going to tell you about it, though – you'd have nightmares, and you don't need to start worrying about things that I've only seen happen to cows and horses!'

'That's very kind of you,' Veronica said, with some irony. 'You could reassure me by pointing out that your mother achieved her greatest success _after_ you were born.'

'It's very true; she did. Look here, Veronica, I'm sure that she'd write to you about it all, if you wanted...'

'Perhaps I shall. And I suppose I ought to face the prospect of a life after dancing anyway. Even if everything goes swimmingly I can't dance forever – another ten years, perhaps, at most.'

Veronica's world-weary air was so much at odds with her youthful appearance that Mariella was hard put to it not to laugh. Impulsively, she reached across the table and squeezed Veronica's hand. 'Don't borrow trouble, as Lady Blantosh says! I'm sure it _will_ go swimmingly!'

  
_May_

A perfect day, standing tiptoe on the line between spring and summer, up on the moors above Bracken Hall, with the sky a limpid blue, melting into haze on the horizon. A suspicion of the sea in the distance, and a blackbird's song ringing out sweet and strong.

'This,' Sebastian declared, 'is the most exquisite cheese sandwich that I have ever tasted. The very angels could not ask for better. Have another?'

'I'm full, thank you.' Veronica stretched out on the sheep-cropped turf and sighed. 'This is a lovely birthday treat, Sebastian. Thank you.'

'Think nothing of it, my dear! I'm only sorry we couldn't do this last week, on your proper birthday!'

'Oh, that doesn't matter,' Veronica said. 'You had your concert. Did you see the review in _Music_ this morning, by the way?'

'Sycophantic guff!' Sebastian growled. 'Howell completely missed the point of the second movement.'

'I thought it was rather perceptive, myself,' Veronica said mildly; 'it did seem to me to be about freedom as well as nature – but of course I'm not going to criticise someone who praises you, even if you disagree! You _are_ good, you know – which reminds me; how is the Durham commission?'

'Getting there,' Sebastian said darkly. 'I'm not sure that choral music is particularly my forte – pardon the pun! I do have, however, a birthday present for you.' He took a piece of manuscript paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, attempted to smooth out the creases, and handed it to her. 'It's a valediction to the life before children. A _lied ohne worte_. A promise that you will dance again.'

'Thank you,' Veronica said, with a slightly wistful smile. 'You shall have to play it to me.'

Sebastian struck his forehead. 'Alas! How remiss of me not to bring the piano! Later, my love, later.'

'In which case,' Veronica said drowsily, 'I shall content myself with the song of the larks until we get home.'

  
_June_

Bracken Hall  
14th June

Dearest Caroline,

Your postcard arrived this morning – a lovely surprise. I shudder to think of the heat in Madrid! Bracken is just about perfect now; we have retreated from London for good now – or at least until the autumn. Sebastian threw a fit about my being so far from Harley Street, of course, but I succeeded in convincing him that naturally his son and heir (or, indeed, daughter and heiress) must be born in the ancestral home, after which he went north with a relatively good grace. I wouldn't so much mind having the baby in London, but being pregnant there for another ten weeks is a thought not to be borne – pun not intended!

Your programme sounds exhausting! I showed your card to Trixie and she said you must be sure to eat square meals (if such a thing be possible in Spain – I believe she thinks the Spanish all live on olives and red wine!) and get to bed early. It's no use trying to explain the dancer's routine to her! I am sure you will appreciate the sentiment, though.

I am missing dancing terribly – of course I am still practising as much as is humanly possible in my current state, but as you will understand it is not at all the same without the stage, the audience, the music... I need the stimulation of other dancers to be completely happy! Sebastian would rather I gave up completely for the moment, I think, but I honestly couldn't face it, to wake up in the morning and think that I would still have another six weeks until I could so much as do a _plié_. So I'm not giving up class until I absolutely have to.

I have already stopped riding, as it's become terribly uncomfortable. (Aunt June, your mother, I should say, told me that much the same thing happened to her – it's funny how much more women seem to have to say to one when there's a baby involved! Not that I was meaning to be rude about Aunt June – I was thinking more about Lady Monkhouse, who does not approve at all of my having hung up my boots 'so early on! Why, you've weeks to go yet!') The truth of it is, I'm rather afraid of falling... But it does mean I don't get out onto the moors as much as I'd like. I walk for miles, but of course one doesn't get nearly so far as one would on a horse!

I hope you and Angelo are both well. Do let me know when your 'secret engagement' ceases to be secret! The press seems to have abandoned the theme now that you are out of the country, but I am always worried that I will let something slip!

Anyway, I think that is more or less it for the moment. It seems a very dull letter by comparison to some of mine, but I am sure you will understand the circumstances.

Much love to you both – and from Sebastian as well,

VERONICA

P. S. Of course there is a P. S. - I forgot to say that we shall be attending Mary Martin's summer show next month. She said to tell you how very proud of you she was, though she isn't sure that she can take much of the credit! V

  
_July_

'How good is that kid?' Sebastian asked as they drove home. 'I mean, one can always trust Mary Martin to spot the promising ones, but will she be a shooting star or a damp squib?'

'That Ella child? Judging only by this afternoon, you understand, she's very good. If we do get her to the Wells, she'll become something very remarkable. Time is running out, though. She's made very good progress, going by what Mary said, but if we don't act fast it will be too late, and she'll never be quite as good as she might be.'

'Worth a scholarship, then?'

'Unquestionably.' Veronica leaned back and closed her eyes. 'Gosh, it's warm!'

'Encouraging the next generation, and all that?' Sebastian prodded delicately.

'What? Oh, Ella, you mean. Yes: sooner or later one has to face the fact that one can't dance forever. Even if everything goes as well as it possibly can I've still only got ten years left in me.'

'I bet you a quid you'll still be on stage in 1970,' Sebastian said. 'But anyway, think of you having a protégée! Your first one! You're becoming quite the _grande dame_!'

'Quite literally!' Veronica laughed. 'Oh, I do wish this baby would just hurry up and arrive! I'm too hot!'

  
_August_

_[a note scribbled on manuscript paper]_

Dr Ridley has recommended that I divert myself with “a symphony, or something” while my wife brings forth our firstborn. I informed him that I had already written a concerto that expressed tolerably well my hopes and fears for the child born into the second half of the twentieth century, atom bombs and all, with two such self-absorbed fanatics as we are for parents. “Well, then,” quoth the good doctor, “a novel, or a sonnet, or something! Experiment with another form!” He is quite a devotee of the _beaux arts et belles lettres_ , is our respected physician.

Personally, I feel that even a limerick would be beyond me at the present moment, and I hope for my dear Veronica's sake that I don't have time to write a novel. One does appreciate, of course, that the presence of a frantic father-to-be is hardly conducive to the smooth running of proceedings, and that between them, Dr Ridley, Miss Fawkes the midwife, and our dear friend Mariella Foster have the situation well in hand (I believe Mariella's experience thus far has been confined – no pun intended – to foals and calves, no genuine human babies, but she'll still be more helpful than I would) – but, all the same, one worries. Of course one does.

Veronica, my darling wife! I quite see her point now. Never again. (Well, perhaps – but I do

(Dear reader, whenever my narrative breaks off abruptly and resumes with no apparent connection to what has gone before, you may safely assume that I have stopped writing and spent a period of some minutes pacing up and down my study, biting my nails and uttering hideous curses. I am assured by all the best authorities that this is recommended practice for the mate of the mother-to-be.)

You may well imagine that I am passing the time by imagining the most hideous results; in the interests of your peace of mind, I shan't share them with you. One feels so terribly _responsible_.

Trixie has just brought me another cup of tea and scolded me for not drinking the previous one. She appears punctually every half hour. I suppose she is boiling an awful lot of water for upstairs, and I am getting the gleanings. She is infuriatingly evasive about what is happening, telling me either that it's best I don't know, or that everything's coming along very nicely! Naturally, I don't believe one word of it.

(More pacing, nail-chewing, and so forth. I don't wish to bore the gentle reader.)

The clock has just struck half past one, which is fortunate, because otherwise I would be completely at sea. I consider that I'm doing well to have worked out that it's half past one ack emma. The moon is so bright that one might almost think it daytime. It would be a lovely night, if it weren't so

_[any further writing on this page is obliterated by an extensive ink blot]_

  
Well! I, Sebastian Scott, who claim to despise Unfinished Symphonies, Lost Chords, and so forth, have left this lying around for nearly a month. Disgraceful! In truth, I forgot it entirely, and only came across it when I was writing out a card for Veronica for our first wedding anniversary.

As a work of literature this essay (is it even an essay?) is of little merit, but I can't quite bring myself to burn it. Perhaps I shall have it framed and present it to my daughter on her twenty-first birthday.

Yes – my daughter! For, ridiculous as it sounds, Veronica and I are the proud possessors of one Victoria Scott, aged nearly four weeks. I am jiggling her over my left shoulder while I write this (hence the atrocious handwriting). Veronica is asleep, dreaming, no doubt, of _entrechats_ and _arabesques_ , of dancing again at Covent Garden (she starts rehearsals the week after next, ridiculous, of course, but just you try telling her that!) – or perhaps under this clear, moonlit, Northumberland sky.

I must write something for her, but perhaps not tonight. Miracle of miracles, Vicki is asleep too! Women and children first, by all means, but I see no reason why the men shouldn't follow. Good night, dear reader. After all, there's plenty of time to finish _this_ story.


End file.
